


Medicated

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8236774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: "Fic idea: cas is a patient in a state hospital for attempted suicide. Dean is a new patient there after having a mental break down after his little brother Sam was injured and John blamed Dean for not protecting him. They help one another cope and heal, first becoming friends because neither of them feels like they belong there, then become more when they realize how much the other one does need someone to know they're struggling."





	

**Author's Note:**

> ~* For my haters *~

* * *

 

“So, what are you in for, crazy?”

Dean’s voice is still a little weak, but the grin on his face makes him feel a little more like himself. It doesn’t get rid of the painful twitching in his stomach or the skittering inside his skin, or the burning, tearing feeling in his soul from being away from his purpose, but at least it’s - it’s Dean, unlike this hollow shell that he feels he’s been turned into. Since then. Since that. Since.

This guy doesn’t talk too much. Mainly stares out the window at the white sky as if he sees something in there that’s talking to him and him only. He just might be crazier than Dean is, but he’s not obnoxious or, or, fuck, banging his head against a wall or screaming or following Dean into the toilet like the other guys on the ward.

Or playing the piano. The piano guy hasn’t stopped for days and nobody seems to think there’s anything wrong with that at all.

_S’pose that’s called creative healing or something. Maybe they’re using crystals, too._

The man, to Dean’s surprise, turns slowly to look at him, and his eyes are a vivid, electric shade of blue all too fitting for his sickly pale skin. He’s still got the bandages around his wrists and the fading dark rings around his eyes, like he got torn out of the ER a week too early. It’s a stupid question, really.

“It seems that in this free world, we are not allowed to make decisions for ourselves after all,” the man says in a collected, slow and considered manner.

Dean expects a smile - his voice is fit for one - but gets none.

“What, it turns out that murder is murder?”

Dean doesn’t know if he’s pushing it, or if this guy has the sense of self-deprecation to laugh at his own suicide attempt. Turns out he really doesn’t, and instead of answering, he just watches Dean like he’s never seen a person before.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks him next, trying to cover up the uncomfortable silence.

“Castiel.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

Finally, he gets half a smile. Castiel turns back towards the window and keeps staring out.

 

* * *

 

He likes playing board games, and Dean’s bored. Damn, is he bored. He’s not allowed to see his brother, his father, or anyone at all. He’s not allowed outside, because he might flip out. Yeah, fair enough; that’s what he’s in there for to begin with. For fighting shadows.

To his defense, shadows can be hella threatening with the kind of a job they’re working. That he. Thinks they’re working. It’s not that simple anymore. Nothing’s been simple since the medication started. Up and down up and down up and down and all over the crazy circle, he’s not entirely sure what’s real anymore. The doc says that’s progress, but to Dean, he liked things better when he knew for certain what was what.

He just misses his brother so fucking much. Sam’s out there. Sam still knows what’s real. He’s always known better than Dean did, anyway. Maybe he’s out the hospital already.

Dean can’t remember if anyone’s called yet.

He’s got to be out the hospital by now.

The leaves are turning golden outside the white howling prison, and like mist, cold has attached itself to the frames of the thin windows everywhere. They’re old, and Dean wonders why there aren’t any bars on them. Don’t they think the crazies might jump out one day?

Cas, as he’s started calling him, doesn’t look so pale anymore. Instead of bandages around his wrists he’s just got hellish-looking scars; three red cuts with red markings where the stitches went vertically over his left arm, two longer, deeper ones on the right arm, but he seems right-handed so that doesn’t make any goddamn sense at all. That said, nothing else about Cas does.

Guy thinks he’s an angel trapped in a human vessel. That his skin isn’t his. Dean can’t blame him for trying to shed the suit. In a crazy way, it makes sense that if he kills it, the thing that he calls his grace would soar out and return to his heavenly home. Or rot in the ground with the rest. Dean’s not entirely certain he trusts an afterlife anymore. He’s seen ghosts, but he doesn’t know what they are. Imprints of living things, souls, echoes, something else - it’s never mattered much.

Cas is a logical thinker. He’s good with strategies, and even though he hardly ever talks and never gloats over his victories, he tends to steamroll Dean in every game they pick up. Dean, on the other hand, talks a lot. It’s just who he is, and the silence makes him anxious. It’s full of the other noises - whispers inside his brain, for one, reminding him of his failure, but also of the very real noises that fill out their days. Bangs, clangs, idle chatter, the creaking of the chair while Judy rocks in it with that horrified expression permanently etched into her features, the sound of the nurses having coffee and laughing, the dishes being taken out, the trash filling up. Dean likes the texture of the woven carpet underneath his toes. He’s stopped wearing socks. Crazy people don’t need to wear socks, he’s learned.

He’s never really had a friend, no one who stuck around, or at least if Sammy doesn’t count (and he does, Sammy counts for everything), but Cas… sometimes feels like one. Dean gets lost watching him sometimes, tired from the medication and the changes in his life, just blacks out and goes somewhere else with him. Outside, mostly. He can see the park through the window behind them, the leaves falling around the benches and on the green trash can underneath an old maple tree. On Cas, too.

Sometimes he wonders if the other would even notice.  
  


* * *

  
In the winter, they get permissions to leave the building. They get them together, since someone has finally figured out they’re good for each other. They’re close, now, mostly; mostly, because Dean still has a blackened cheekbone from that one time Cas landed a fist in his face. In a way, Dean gets it. Maybe he shouldn’t be talking about giving up, talking about the windows like that, talking about the fall, talking about - well - anything. It’s probably personal for Cas, and maybe he’s imprinted on Dean like a little duckling by now. 

They don’t talk about it. It’s easier to not talk about the days when things are bad. And, really, it’s just easier not to talk at all, since Cas doesn’t do the responding thing very often.

They sit on the bench and Dean kicks at the snow and rests his head on the man’s shoulder.

“You know angels aren’t real, right?” he asks him, the chill biting at his cheekbones.

Cas lets out a sound that his closed mouth muffles. He sits very straight, and he’s quite warm, and there’s something incredibly strong about him. It’s got nothing to do with the way his fist felt, either. He wasn’t strong then; he was shattered, in chaos. He’s strong in different ways, ways that draw Dean in, ways that make him feel like he could - maybe - just close his eyes and curl up on his lap and wake up safe the next day.

God, he wants to curl up against the guy too often for his own good.

“Do you believe in God, Dean?”

“Not really. No offense.”

Castiel nods.  
“Sometimes, neither do I,” he says in a distant voice.

He lifts his hand and rests it over Dean’s.  
  


* * *

  
Sneaking out in the middle of the night knowing that the night patrol will eventually look inside your room and find out you’re gone is a thrill for Dean. He slips into the corridor when the nurse has her back turned: she’s peeking into another room, too immersed in the normal state of nothing in the ward moving to sense Dean sneaking past her. Two doors, three doors, and Dean slips inside Castiel’s. He’s expert at getting past guards. He’s done it his entire life.

The resident angel sits there on his bed with the reading light on, doing nothing as per usual; he lifts his gaze towards Dean and smiles at him, one of the only smiles Dean’s seen on him during the months they’ve known each other. 

Dean doesn’t bother answering it. They don’t have the time. Instead, he crawls up on the man’s lap and takes his head between his hands, and he draws him into a kiss, hips grinding down into his; for a while, Cas sits there frozen, but Dean trusts that he’ll melt eventually, and he does.

The reading light goes off. He tastes human, of shower fresh skin and saliva and salt, and Dean loves the feel of his legs around his hips when they rock against each other, the blanket hastily thrown over their bodies to cover them from sight if the nurse decides to run another course early tonight, but she doesn’t, and eventually the cover falls off anyway with no one bothering to pick it up. They spend minutes that feel like years together, lips hot and numb and wet and red together, fingernails dragging marks into wherever they can reach, with first Dean’s hand gripping them and holding them together as they move in unison, then Cas’s, and even though Dean’s hardly remained pure for the duration of his stay, this orgasm feels like the first one he’s had in years.

He wants to stay, but he knows there’ll be precautions taken if he’ll get caught, so he leaves Cas spread on his bed and slips back into his room through the dark corridor, falling asleep moments later in his own bed with a dumb grin on his face.  
  


* * *

  
Sam’s grown.

No, really, he has, that fucking giant. And he’s sentimental, as always; throws his arms around Dean the moment he sees him and holds him so tight Dean feels like he can’t breathe. He smells so good and so familiar that for a moment Dean really _can’t_  breathe; he fears that if he does so, he’ll start crying.

He holds his brother back and keeps him still against his body, trying to soak up his warmth and he feels so right there that close to Dean again that Dean just doesn’t want to let go at all, but eventually they part anyway, and sit down. In silence. Like neither really knows what to say. Finally, Sam lifts his shirt a little, showing Dean the scars from the attack.

It feels weird. Like maybe the medication isn’t working after all. Like maybe Sam’s a hallucination. 

The shirt drops and Sam throws a glance towards the nurses, but none of them are really interested in the brotherly reunion. They don’t know that Sam’s just as crazy as Dean is, that they share a delusion together, a delusion that rules a world beyond theirs that they hopefully will never have to share with them. Then he looks back at Dean and grimaces.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” he says.

Dean nods.  
“I know. You weren’t allowed. It’s not your fault.”

“I could have - I feel like I should have sneaked in anyway. I owe it to you.”

“Yeah, well, this place’s pretty well guarded. Not to mention on the fourth floor. So.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you - are you better?”

Dean considers. Then he shrugs.  
“What’s better, Sam?” he asks with a nervous chuckle.

Sam licks his lips anxiously, and for a moment, they’re both quiet. Then he shifts and leans back in his chair, glances at the nurses again, then turns back towards Dean.  
“We need you.”

Dean nods.  
“Yeah,” he utters, then hesitates before adding; “Where’s Dad?”

“In the car outside. They would only let one of us in to make it easier for you or whatever, so Dad sent me up, said you probably need to see me more than him.”

A small smile crosses Dean’s lips and he nods again. He feels good knowing John’s there, if not physically then at least in the spirit; that means he’s not angry anymore.

He’s not sure if he could handle that.

“What should I tell him?” Sam asks.

“Tell him that - I’m doing better,” Dean replies slowly, “I’m not… I don’t feel that crazy anymore. A little jumpy, maybe, but getting back to the job should take care of that. Give me something real to think about.”

Sam nods. He seems relieved, and it’s the only thing Dean really needs, to know that he’s doing good by his brother. He needs to get out there again. Needs to be there for Sam, for - their family.

Unexpectedly, Castiel appears from thin air. His hand brushes over Dean’s shoulders and freezes him in the place. Sam’s eyes follow him across the room until he’s seated himself beside the window again.

“Who’s that?”

“Cas.”  
Dean swallows.  
“He’s being released in a few days,” he continues then, “And he’s the only friend I’ve got in here, so, I - the sooner you guys can get me out…”

Sam nods again.  
“You’ve got his number, right?” he asks in a serious tone.

“What?”

“You’ll need his number to stay in touch, Dean. So ask him for it.”

Dean’s never realised Cas might have a number. Or a phone in the first place. Cas and technology don’t seem to go together, but fuck, how else he’s supposed to keep up with the guy? By praying?

An all too familiar fear settles in the pit of his stomach again and he nods. He doesn’t want to lose Cas. Doesn’t want to lose anyone. Doesn’t want to choose. Doesn’t want to be left behind.

He stands up, leaving the chair balancing on two legs: Sam catches it before it falls, and Dean can feel his eyes follow him all the way to where Cas is sitting.

“Hey, Cas.”

The angel looks at him and his smile is so warm and so good that Dean wants to lean down and kiss it from his face, take it so that he can keep it forever. Instead, he returns it, and sits opposite of him.

“I forgot to ask your number. Since you’re leaving and you’ll be getting your phone back and everything. I’m gonna leave soon, too, so - wanna keep in touch.”

Suddenly, he feels nervous and - weird. Maybe he’s being too invasive. This probably doesn’t mean anything for Cas: they’ve just been together because they’ve had no other choice. Out there, he could, fuck, he could have a wife or something. A life of his own. Friends who are as crazy as he is, with whom he can connect and have sex and everything.

He doesn’t need Dean. Right?

But the smile on Castiel stays and he nods.  
“Of course,” he says, and then doesn’t say anything else.

Dean raises a brow at him, and he almost looks teasing, that asshole.

“So, what is it?”

“You’ll find it when you need it,” Cas assures him, and then refuses to look at him again.

Uncomfortable, Dean returns to Sam, who expects an answer.  
“I guess I’ve got it,” he says, and Sam sighs heavily.  
  


* * *

  
John takes a firm hold of Dean and slams their bodies together. It’s the only kind of a hug he knows, that… bear-like embrace meant to kill rather than to show affection. He presses a kiss over his son’s head and pats him on the back, and Dean feels a little dizzy stepping inside the old Impala. Sam’s there on the backseat, and Dean doesn’t even realise he chooses to sit with Sam rather than on his place on the shotgun, but fuck, it’s been a long time; all he wants is to just be with his brother, and the springtime sun is too bright to face through the windshield anyway.

The radio fills the rather light and cheerful silence with the comforting familiar tunes of classic rock as soon as the engine sparks into life, and the old hospital complex falls behind them with an entire pharmacy of medication rattling inside Dean’s backpack.

“So, where was it? The number?” Sam asks him, and Dean’s entire body tingles with electricity.

He glances at John, afraid he’s listening, but Sam’s good at keeping secrets and the man hasn’t picked up a word.

“In a freaking Bible,” Dean grunts, “He left it with the nurses and told them to give it to me as a gift when I get out.”

Sam snorts.  
“Of course it was.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna call him?”

Dean shivers.  
“Yeah, I guess - eventually,” he says, knowing it’ll be the first thing he does as soon as they stop for gas.


End file.
